by John Saul
She’d been in the nursery and her aunt had come, but it hadn’t really been her aunt at all.
And she’d put on a leotard, then gone upstairs to the ballroom.
Her friends were there, waiting for her. Kerry and Jenny, and Ruby.
Even her father.
She’d seen them, sitting on chairs in the ballroom, watching her dance.
Except—
She struggled with her memory, knowing there was something she’d forgotten, something important.
And then it came back to her.
All of them were dead.
She whimpered as a helpless desolation engulfed her soul, then rolled over.
An explosion of agony tore through her and she screamed, then tried to stifle the sound as the scream itself produced yet another spasm of pain.
“Help me,” she moaned softly, her eyes burning with tears. “Oh, God, won’t someone please help me?”
Then, dimly at first, she heard a movement from above. She blinked, and struggled to keep her eyes open. Candlelight flickered around her, and far up the stairs she saw another light, a brighter one.
She gasped, shrinking painfully back as she recognized her aunt at the top of the stairs, the hurricane lamp held in her left hand.
Limping painfully, her right hand grasping the banister to steady herself, she began making her way slowly down the stairs.
“Don’t,” Julie moaned when Marguerite was finally on the landing, looming over her, staring down at her with vacant eyes. “Please don’t hurt me any more, Aunt Marguerite.”
“Hurt you?” Marguerite echoed, her voice strangely hollow, as if Julie’s words had no meaning to her. “But I couldn’t hurt you, my darling. I love you. But you’ve had a terrible accident.”
Julie swallowed, wincing at the pain even that simple action caused. “I—you—”
“You fell down the stairs,” Marguerite told her. She was smiling gently now, her carmine lips twisting oddly. “Just like I fell down the stairs. That’s what Mama told me. She told me I was clumsy and that I tripped. She said it was an accident, and that it was my fault. But I didn’t believe her.” She frowned, as if trying to reach into her memory. “I thought she pushed me. I thought she was angry, because of the baby.”
“B-Baby?” Julie whispered, struggling to cling to her consciousness. What was her aunt talking about?
“You didn’t know, did you?” Marguerite said vaguely. She wasn’t looking at Julie anymore, and her eyes had taken on a furtive look. “I didn’t tell anyone. Mama said everyone would hate me if they knew what I’d done. She said it was better if I pretended none of it ever happened. But I couldn’t pretend. I wasn’t good at it.” A tiny laugh emerged from her throat. “That’s why she locked me up. She kept me downstairs until I learned to pretend. And I pretended that none of it ever happened. I pretended that I was never pregnant, and that Mama never pushed me down the stairs at all. And I loved Mama. All my life I loved Mama, and did everything she wanted me to do.”
Julie tried to listen, tried to make sense out of the words, but the agony in her body muddled her mind.
“But Mama left me,” Marguerite went on. “They all left me. Even though I pretended, they still hated me and left me.” Her eyes came back to Julie again. “You’re like them, aren’t you? You’re going to leave me, too.”
“N-No …” Julie breathed, suddenly certain of what was going to happen next. But it was too late. Marguerite’s eyes had begun sparkling with her madness again.
“Don’t lie to me,” she snarled, lashing out at Julie, her foot sinking into the girl’s stomach. “Don’t ever lie to me!”
Julie gasped, curling up in a tight ball, struggling to breathe as the pain wrenched at her. But Marguerite’s foot struck again, and Julie instinctively rolled away from it, trying to shield herself with her arms.
“Like all of them!” Marguerite screamed. “You’re just like all the rest of them. I’ve done everything for you, but you want to leave, too, don’t you? Don’t you?” Her foot struck Julie again, and Julie writhed on the floor, trying to escape her aunt’s wrath but unable to move because of the pain. “Well, I won’t let you! You’ll never leave me. Never!” She kicked Julie once more, and Julie felt herself falling again, tumbling down the main stairs this time. Knives were stabbing into her body now, but the pain was so powerful that she couldn’t even scream out against it.
Let me die, she thought. Oh, please, God, just let me die.…
And then, once more, she fell into unconsciousness. She dropped down the last steps limply, like a broken doll, and finally came to rest on the floor at the foot of the stairs, in a pool of Kerry Sanders’s blood.
Marguerite, still at the top of the stairs, gazed down at her, then shook her head sadly. “It’s your fault,” she breathed. “It’s all your fault, my dear. But I can’t help you now. I have my guests to think of, don’t I?” She was silent for a moment, then nodded her head vaguely. “Yes. I have my guests.”
Turning away, humming softly to herself, she started back up to the ballroom. By the time she reached it, Julie, still lying at the bottom of the stairs, was forgotten. Once more Marguerite was lost in the eddying whirlpool of her memories and her madness.
Will Hempstead stopped short.
Ahead of him the mansion loomed at the top of the rise upon which it had been built. The windows of the third floor sparkled brightly with candlelight.
A memory stirred in him, a memory from his youth, when he’d been no more than eighteen years old.
There had been a ball at Sea Oaks that night, and Marguerite had wanted him to come. But Helena had forbidden it, telling Marguerite that he would never be welcome here and forbidding her ever to see him again. But he’d come anyway, and stood outside, in the deep shadows of the moss-draped pines.
It had been a hot night—hot and humid—and on the third floor the French doors had been thrown wide. He’d stood hidden in the trees and watched the dancers through the open doors, heard the gentle strains of the orchestra, heard the laughter of Helena’s guests as they drifted out on the balcony high up above the house’s great portico. At last, as the hour grew late, he’d left, knowing deep inside him that in the end this house—and Helena—would defeat the love that was all he had to offer Marguerite.
The rain had stopped now, and as Will Hempstead stood looking up at the great house, that evening came back to him. It was that night, he remembered, when Marguerite had fallen down the stairs. It had happened late, after all the guests had left. She’d been tired, Ruby told him later, and missed her footing.
Missed her footing and plunged down the stairs, smashing not only her hip, but every dream she’d ever had.
They were going to go away together, or so they’d planned. But even before the accident, Will had decided that was never going to happen. Helena would see to that. And then, ironically, she hadn’t had to, for the fall had put a stop to all Marguerite’s dreams. Not only the dreams of dancing, but the dreams that included Will Hempstead, as well.
Tonight, as the storm moved north and stars began to peep through the thinning clouds, the house looked much as it did then.
Except that tonight, as he gazed up at the softly glowing ballroom, only one figure danced.
The figure of Marguerite Devereaux, her arms held up as if she were holding an invisible partner, her body moving with the strange jerkiness of a marionette as she tried to dip and sway in time to whatever music she might be hearing.
“Better let me have the radio,” Hempstead said quietly, his eyes still on the ballroom windows.
“Wh-What’s she doing?” Jeff quavered, clutching tightly to the police chiefs hand.
“It’s all right, son,” Hempstead told the terrified boy. “She can’t hurt you now. You’re going to be okay.”
He took the radio out of the plastic bag and switched it on, tuning it to the channel that was constantly monitored by one or another of the town’s volunteer firemen. His voice heavy, h
e began calling out the codes for an emergency.
“And I’m going to need an ambulance,” he said after he’d told the fire chief where he was. “Maybe two. I lost my car coming across, so be careful. Don’t even try it until you’re sure it’s safe!”
He snapped the radio off, and then, with Hal Sanders and Frank Weaver a couple of paces behind him, started up the hill.
CHAPTER 28
Will Hempstead stared at the front door of the mansion for several long seconds. He felt a deep reluctance to take the final step of pushing it open, for already he was certain that a tragedy had taken place within the house that night and that it would be years before anyone in Devereaux would ever forget it. At last he reached out and twisted the knob. The door was not locked, and with a gentle push it swung back to reveal the entry hall, dimly aglow with the light of a single sputtering stub of a candle on the newel post.
Then he saw the crumpled form of Julie’s body, curled at the bottom of the stairs, and his heart sank. Already they were far too late.
“Julie!” Jeff cried out. Dropping his grip on Hempstead’s hand, he ran to his sister, dropping down on the floor beside her. “Julie!” he sobbed again. Then he looked up, his eyes—large and glistening with tears—fixing on the police chief. “She’s dead,” he wailed. “Aunt Marguerite killed her!”
Hempstead hurried across to the sobbing child and knelt beside him, his fingers gently touching Julie’s neck. Almost immediately he found her pulse.
“She’s not dead,” he told Jeff, and as if to affirm his words, a low moan drifted from Julie’s lips, and the fingers of her left hand twitched spasmodically. “Find a blanket,” Hempstead told Hal Sanders. “And a pillow. Quick!”
Sanders disappeared into the living room and a moment later was back, carrying an afghan that had been draped over the back of the sofa and a small pillow he’d found on one of the wing chairs. Hempstead, working as carefully as he knew how, eased Julie’s right arm out from under her body and gently straightened her legs. For a moment he considered moving her into the living room, but then rejected the idea, afraid that her back might already be broken. If he risked moving her, he might only compound her injuries.
“Kerry—” Hal Sanders said, his eyes fixed on the dark bruises that covered Julie’s face. “He’s got to be here.”
Hempstead stood up, and when he spoke again, his voice took on a note of authority. “I want you to stay here, Hal. Take care of Jeff, and if Julie wakes up, don’t let her move.” Then he turned to Frank Weaver, a nod of his head directing the deputy’s attention to the smears of blood that led from the foot of the stairs toward the door to the cellar. “Take a look down there,” he said. “I’ll go upstairs.”
Frank Weaver stared down the steep flight of stairs that led to the basement, the bright beam of his flashlight playing over the smears of drying blood that seemed to be everywhere. The steps were sticky with blood, and even the wall adjacent to the steps was stained a brownish red. Placing his feet carefully, avoiding the worst of the mess, he started down into the basement, stopping when he reached the bottom of the stairs. Ahead of him, its door standing wide open, was a small room, and Weaver frowned in the gloom as a thought drifted through his mind.
Looks like a cell.
Steeling himself, he strode toward the little room.
It was empty, but as Weaver played his light over it, he felt a wave of nausea. There seemed to be blood everywhere—on the floor, on the wooden cot against the wall, even on the door itself. What the hell had gone on here? And where were the people whose bodies had to be the source of the carnage around him?
He turned away and hurried back up the stairs, but as he started up the main staircase, Hal Sanders stopped him, his face ashen and his hand trembling on Weaver’s arm.
“Kerry,” he asked shakily. “Is—Is he down there?”
Weaver said nothing, only shaking his head. Then he hurried on up the stairs.
On the second floor he saw the glimmer of Will Hempstead’s flashlight flickering through an open door at the end of the hall. Quickening his step, he moved along the length of the corridor and stepped into the bedroom.
“The basement’s a mess,” Weaver told the police chief. “Blood all over the place, but no bodies.”
Hempstead nodded grimly, then played the flashlight over a heap of clothes on the dressing room floor. “Same thing up here,” the police chief said. “There’s bloody clothes all over the place. The window in the nursery’s smashed, just like Jeff said,” he added. Taking a deep breath, he started toward the door. “We better go up there and see what she’s done. But from what I’ve seen so far, it’s going to be one hell of a mess.”
Together the two men started down the corridor, but on the stairs to the third floor Weaver stopped abruptly, listening.
Drifting down from the open doors to the ballroom above, he heard the faint sound of music. The melody was one he’d never heard before, a strangely haunting tune that tinkled softly in the otherwise silent house.
“You hear that, Will?” Weaver whispered. For a moment he wasn’t sure the police chief had heard his question, but then Hempstead nodded.
“ ‘The Last Good Night,’ ” he whispered softly. “It was always her favorite song.”
A great melancholy settling over him, the police chief slowly climbed the remaining steps to the ballroom.
Will Hempstead stepped through the double doors of the ballroom. It was stiflingly hot, for the windows were closed tight, but all the candles still burned brightly. A layer of pale smoke floated near the ceiling, swirling gently as Marguerite, her eyes closed, her head thrown back, slowly danced to the eerie melody of the music box. For several long moments Hempstead’s eyes fixed on her uncomprehendingly. Then, as Frank Weaver swore softly, he tore his eyes from Marguerite and saw the four corpses, all of them except Jenny Mayhew still upright on their chairs.
“Jesus,” he breathed. The word seemed to grow in volume as it echoed in the large room, and Marguerite’s eyes snapped open.
Turning, she looked directly at Will Hempstead, the scarlet slash of her mouth spreading into a welcoming smile.
“Will,” she said. “How nice of you to come. I’ve missed you so much, you know.”
With a tiny curtsey she closed her eyes once more and resumed her dance.
“Crazy,” Weaver muttered. “She’s just gone completely wacko!” He started toward Marguerite, but Will reached out, his fingers clamping tight on his deputy’s arm.
“No,” he said, his voice quiet but his tone leaving no room for argument. “It’s all over now, Frank. There’s nothing more she can do. Let her finish.”
Weaver froze, staring at Marguerite for a moment, then stepped back.
As the music went on, weaving a mournful spell in the candlelight, Hempstead’s vision blurred and his eyes began to sting with tears. In his mind the grotesque, twisted vision before him—the strange, hobbling figure in the ill-fitting and faded dress, with its bizarre, distorted mask of Helena’s evil face—faded away, and in its place came a memory of the Marguerite Devereaux he had fallen in love with so many years ago.
The Marguerite he saw then moved gracefully, her body swaying with the rhythm of the music, her fingers trailing in the air with a perfect symmetry that reminded him of a flower dancing on the breeze. Soft and perfect, her smile was gentle and her eyes sparkled with a happiness that reached out to Will, gladdening his heart.
Hempstead could even see himself, waiting as Marguerite spun toward him, reaching out to him as he had once reached out to her—
And then, as the music box abruptly stopped and a silence fell over the ballroom, the vision faded away, and Will Hempstead’s eyes cleared. Before him, a few yards away, Marguerite was curtseying low, her head bent demurely, her right hand on her skirt, her left daintily touching her bosom.
At last she rose to her feet, and her head came up so that her eyes met Will’s. For a moment Will wasn’t certain she even saw him
, for there was an empty hollowness in her eyes that he’d never seen before. And then, once more, her mouth twisted into a parody of the sweet smile of her youth.
“Was I all right, Will?” she asked, her voice childlike and trembling with anxiety.
Will swallowed the lump that rose in his throat, then walked toward her, his hand outstretched. “You were fine, Miss Marguerite,” he said, his voice breaking. “You were just fine. But I think it’s time to go now.”
Marguerite’s smile faded, but then she nodded vaguely and took the arm that Will offered her. Pressing close to him, leaning her weight against the strength of his body, she started toward the door, then stopped and turned toward the row of chairs against the wall.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “Thank you all for coming to watch me dance. But it’s late now, and I have to go.” Once more she curtseyed low. “Good night,” she breathed, then turned away, and with Will Hempstead at her side, drifted out of the candlelit ballroom.
CHAPTER 29
The first gray light was streaking the horizon over the sea when at last the ambulances, followed by a long cortege of the townspeople’s cars, crept slowly across the causeway and along the road toward Sea Oaks. Hours earlier a helicopter—its rotor clattering loudly in the night—had swept low over the channel, put down on the lawn in front of the mansion, and then, a few minutes later, had risen once more into the night sky. As it moved back across the channel, a murmur had rippled through the gathered crowd as word was passed along that Julie Devereaux had been taken off the island. A few people were certain she was dead, but most of them knew that whatever had happened, Julie must have survived. If she hadn’t, there would have been no need for the helicopter. But when the helicopter didn’t return, a numb silence had fallen over the crowd as they realized that the other children who had gone out to the island that day must have perished.